VIII. The Spaniard, (') when the lust of sway A strict accountant of his beads, Yet better had he neither known But thou IX. from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung Too late thou leav'st the high command To which thy weakness clung; All Evil Spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart To see thine own unstrung; To think that God's fair world hath been The footstool of a thing so mean; X. And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, XI. Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, If thou hadst died as honour dies, (1) Charles V. XII. Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust Thy scales, Mortality! are just But yet methought the living great Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth XIII. And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, How bears her breast the torturing hour? Must she too bend, must she too share If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, XIV. Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, XV. Thou Timour! in his captive's cage (1) What thought will there be thine, While brooding in thy prison'd rage But one ? "The world was mine!" Unless, like he of Babylon, All sense is with thy sceptre gone, (2) The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane. XVI. Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, (1) Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst, Prometheus. "The very fiend's arch mock To lip a wanton and suppose her chaste.". Shakespere. |